


Casualties VI

by dormiensa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Betrayal, Deception, F/M, Family Drama, Forbidden Love, Ministry of Magic, Politics, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: Hermione and Draco have reached the end of their limit. Ambushed from all sides, they make a desperate attempt to secure their happiness.





	

"Some falls are means the happier to arise."  Shakespeare's _Cymbeline_

 

 

Ivy, honeysuckle, and all forms of creeping vegetation had long ago covered its grey-stoned exterior.  The walled garden was blooming with a myriad of bright-coloured flowers and shrubs.  If the gardener didn't come once a week to tame it, the garden would long ago have crept beyond the low stone wall.    
   
Everyone on the street knew that the owner was a recluse.  No one had ever seen him even peer out of the curtained front window, but the gardener had assured them that he received regular payments in the mail.  Fenice, that was the owner's name.  How old he was, what he looked like, not even the gardener knew.  But he was a generous client who paid on time and never complained about the work done or made any demands; therefore, he was a good—if odd—man.  
   
If these curious persons could enter through the blue front door, they would have been shocked to find the furniture covered in sheets, a thick layer of dust, and generations of abandoned cobwebs.  If they followed the main floor hallway toward the back of the house, they would have found a cozy sunroom off the kitchen.  And in one corner of the sunroom, they would have found a most extraordinary basin filled with a misty, not-quite-solid substance that glowed slightly, even in broad daylight.  If they were fortunate enough, they would see bits of the swirling silver substance suddenly rise up from the confines of the basin, though tethered by some invisible force, and seemingly dissolve into short film clips.  Those who stayed long enough or returned often enough would learn that these clips almost always featured a small family of three: a fair-haired husband, his vivacious wife, and their daughter with beautiful dark chocolate curls but startlingly pale grey eyes.    
   
The audience would have been amazed at these unusual family videos.  What sort of technology could produce such a thing?  It wasn't a hologram or some other form of optical illusion.  One could touch the basin, and while the silver substance seemed to escape between the fingers, it had a definite texture.   There were no wires, no detectable power source.  It was almost magical, if one believed in such things.  
   
Who were these three fascinating people?  Why had they left behind such an intriguing series of documentaries?  
 

_“Papa, wake up!  You said if I slept early and woke up early, we’d go to the park!  Papa!  You promised!”_

_“Nnnghh, I’m up! I’m up!  Go wash up and change your clothes first.”_

_The little girl skipped happily out of the room._

_“Remind me not to make any half-hearted promises to your daughter from now on.”_

_“You should never make promises of any sort that you don’t intend to keep,” came the muffled response from the depths of the covers.  “She’s_ your _daughter as much as mine, by the way.”_

_He chuckled and pulled back the covers to find a scowling brunette blinking at the sudden light. “Well, if I have to get up at the crack of dawn to entertain your daughter, then you’re going with us.  We need a reliable person to prevent me from hurting myself and consequently putting her in danger.”_

 

 _“We have both tea and coffee in the kitchen.  And I_ know _you’ve learned how to use the coffee-maker.”_

_“Oh, come, Mummy, with all the overtime you’ve been working lately, you’ve been missing out on quality time with your offspring.  Remember how she was saying she never sees you anymore?”_

_“You are such a Slytherin prat!  Fine, fine, I’m getting up.  But if I don’t get tomorrow to sleep in, I’m hexing you to oblivion, even if it breaches the house’s wards and alerts the Ministry.”_

_“Well, I fully intend on sleeping in myself tomorrow.  So, all you need to do is convince your daughter to not wake us up.”_

_“All_ I _need—_ my _daughter? Say that again, Mr. Sodding Malfoy, and you’re going back to bachelorhood.  Don’t forget, I can make myself completely untraceable; and this time ’round, there’s no Harry or Ron for you to coerce into revealing my whereabouts.  And Susan and Neville are going to be kept in the dark.  Not that they’d tell, in any case.”_

_“You forget Katriane’s charmed pendant.  And even if you managed to convince her to take it off, she’s of_ my _blood, and there are ways of tracing by that means.”_  
  
_“Oh, so she_ is _your daughter, too, is she?”_

_“She’s only_ your _daughter when her inner Gryffindor rears its ugly head.”_

 

_“You’re just raking in the points this morning, aren’t you, you scion of bad faith?”_

_“It’s seven o’clock—on a_ Saturday _!  I’ve had no stimulant, and my wife kept me up half the night.”_

_“You poor dear.  Would you like to Floo-call Pansy for some petting?  Oh wait.  She’s married to Harry now, who doesn’t know we’re alive.  Well, you can always risk grabbing your broom for some fresh air, though in your groggy state, you just_ might _produce a faulty Disillusionment Charm.  Won’t the neighbours be shocked.”_

_“I’m not a Weasley.  I can do basic charms like that asleep.”_

_“Why aren’t you dressed yet, Papa?  It’s getting late!  All the swings are going to be taken when we get there!  I’m giving you ten minutes, and I’m going to wait by the door.  If you don’t show up, I’m telling the house to lock you in the bathroom again.”_

_“That’s her inner Slytherin rearing its ugly head.”_

_“And an excellent addition and credit she’ll make to the House, too.  Come on, mother of the future Minister for Magic, get up.  We now have nine minutes left.  I_ hate _being stuck in that bathroom alone!”_

_Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the park.  There were still swings available, and after several initial pushes to help get his daughter started, Draco joined Hermione on the bench and held her hands tightly as they watched their gleeful daughter propel herself higher and higher.  Unbeknownst to them, several passers-by, most of them elderly, observed the little tableau the three made and smiled at such a picture of contentment._

 

The house was on alert.  
   
Someone magical was walking toward it.  She was young, and she was  _family_.   The young witch paused at the little gate, searching.  Finally, behind some ivy, she found the sign: Fawke's Perch.  She quietly let herself in through the gate and approached the door.  From her coat pocket, she retrieved the key.

 

Closing the door behind her, she stopped to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom, but to her surprise, sunlight was seeping into every room.  The skylight above the hallway had its curtains open; windows not facing the street (not to mention nosy neighbours) were also letting in light.  There was still a slight musty smell, but for a house that had been closed-up for so long, there was barely any dust. In fact, there wasn't any dust  _anywhere_.    
   
The young witch smiled and patted the banister of the stairs leading to the second floor.  She also gently ran her fingers along the walls of the hallway as she headed toward the sunroom.  The house purred.  

 

Astraea took a few moments to enjoy the warmth of the sun before seeking the object of interest.  She smiled when she saw the Pensieve in the corner.  She touched its cool surface and saw the swirls of memories wink with flashes of colour.  Although eager to see them, she knew that she needed to first recite the phrase she was taught before the protective wards surrounding the bookcase would unlock.  As soon as the last word was uttered, books became visible on the previously empty shelves.  There were several references about The Second War, the pure-blood families of the previous century, spellbooks, and other miscellaneous ones, but her eyes were drawn to the two shelves of slim books with untitled spines. These were the journals started by her great-great-grandmother, the famous Hermione Granger, and passed down to her daughter, the first Keeper.  A glow alerted her to a memory rising from the Pensieve.  A witch with greying brown curls and laughing grey eyes introduced herself as Katriane.  Her great-grandmother. Astraea felt tears well up; she had never met her great-gran but had been told that she was the spit and image of the kind witch.  Seeing her memoried person, Astraea could see the resemblance and fervently hoped she would age as gracefully.  
   
Katriane welcomed her and explained why she had started the Keeper tradition. Astraea's predecessor, her Aunt Pleione, had already given her a brief overview of her duties and responsibilities, but it was always good to have the complete story.  It made Astraea even more excited to look at all the memories.  She debated between viewing the memories and starting the journals first.  She finally decided that visuals would probably better explain the contents of the journals.  
   
The house watched her disappear into the Pensieve and wondered which memory its new owner would see first.  Over the years, many of the memories had tried to escape their confines, and the house had found the extra company soothing.  They were happy memories, and the house especially loved to see Katriane through the years.  She was such a beautiful, cheerful child.  As an only child, the house and its gardens had been as much her best friends as the human ones that came home with her.  Ever since she could talk, she had bid the house goodnight and greeted it in the morning.  She had taught her own children to do the same whenever they visited.  Katriane had only said goodbye to the house once, and it missed her dreadfully—she never returned.  But the house was never forgotten by her descendants, and they made sure it was cared for in their absence.  
   
The house wondered if its new owner would move in.  She looked so much like Katriane, although there was a quiet steadiness about her that was more like Mrs. Hermione.  

 

 

_"Narcissa?  Where are—?  No!  You stupid bitch!  What have you done?!  Oh, thank Merlin, you're breathing!  Wake up!  You don't get to die yet, not until I've told you about Draco!  And you still need to beg his forgiveness!"  The young witch scrambled to the fireplace.  "Harry Potter!  Malfoy Manor! Right now!"_  
   
_A wizard with messy hair stumbled out of the fireplace a moment later.  "Pansy!  Are you OK?  What—?  Is she dead?"_  
   
_"No, but she's weak and unconscious.  And Circe's curse on her if she dies before she learns her folly. Find Susan Bones or anyone at St. Mungo's!"_  
   
_The young witch called for a house-elf, but none appeared.  She was puzzled at this but had no time to further investigate when a blonde Healer stepped out of the fireplace with Harry Potter.  After several nerve-wracking moments of intense diagnosing, Healer Bones tipped an antidote down her patient's throat and sighed in relief as she saw some colour slowly return to the older witch's cheeks.  Her breathing also deepened.  They decided that it would be safe to leave her to recover at the manor.  Healer Bones would send an assistant to watch over the patient while she checked in periodically._  
  
 _After putting the patient to bed, the three convened in the sitting room._  
  
 _"I thought you'd said you were going to wait until the anniversary to tell her, Pansy.  Something change your mind?"_  
  
 _"Harry.  I always thought that Slytherins were best at guilting people to do what they wanted, but either Gryffindors are more sneaky than we've given them credit or he was Sorted into the wrong house."_  
  
 _"Just rubbing off the Slytherin I married.  I've always been a quick study."_  
  
 _"We'll discuss your punishment later, Bane.  Susan, how soon do you expect her to wake up?"_  
  
 _"It's hard to say.  The poison she ingested is a slow-acting one, and without any knowledge of how long she's been consuming it, it's hard to tell how soon it can be flushed out of her system.  She's not in any danger, though who knows when the poison would have completely taken hold if you hadn't come along."_  
  
 _"I can't believe the gall of that woman!  She thinks she can destroy their lives and just snuff it without paying the consequences?  Oh, I know, it's Lucius who's more to blame, but I know Draco.  He wouldn't've taken that step if he even thought for a moment that she would support him."_  
  
 _"To be fair, Panse, neither you nor I were very supportive of them.  If they didn't have you, Susan…"_  
  
 _" I had the advantage of knowing about them since Sixth, well before all the debacle and blame started.  And you should thank Pansy, too.  Nev and I couldn’t’ve planned it so completely without her.  Don’t blame yourself, Harry: I know you would've supported her.  She didn't turn to you only because of Ginny and the pressure she knew you'd be under from her family."_  
  
 _"Well, we're rid of the lot of them.  Don't tell Hermione about this yet—you know how soft-hearted she is.  I don't want her trying to mend things until I've given Narcissa a piece of my mind and watched her squirm."_  
  
 _"Don't be too hard on her, Panse.  She thinks she's suffered two losses, you know."_  
  
 _"Don't worry.  The poison didn't kill her, so a little scolding is hardly going to.  Remember: you don't owe her anything anymore.  You already testified for her and helped her keep everything in this house plus most of the money at Gringotts.  Oh, Susan, Albus and Lily were asking about another play-date with Jeannette just yesterday.  What day are you free?"_  
  
 _"I'm off Thursday and Friday this week.  I'll see if Hermione and Katriane are free as well."_  
  
 _"Great!"_

 

 

 

Astraea sat pondering.  Like her predecessors, she was trying to decide what course of action to take to continue the work of breaking down the social prejudices that still kept the wizarding world segregated.   Aunt Pleione had become a teacher at Hogwarts, hoping to influence the young minds that would soon have the responsibilities of running their world.  Unfortunately, like the other Keepers and the handful of like-minded wizards, Aunt Pleione’s was a lone voice, and her circle of influence could not extend far enough to revolutionize their society.   Astraea wanted a more drastic measure, something that would slap their world out of its stupor. 

 

A discreet tap on the study window interrupted her musings.  Ah, the delivery of the _Daily Prophet_.  She half-heartedly glanced at the headlines, still intent on her problem.  She noticed that there was yet another “exclusive” interview with her friend Jem Potter—of course, he was Undersecretary Jeremy Potter to the public—and she grinned once more at the thought that a Potter still made headlines after all this time.  She knew Jem hated interviews as much as his famed forefather, but given his position in the Ministry, it was necessary. 

 

Necessary.  That was it!  She suddenly recalled that Harry Potter had given an exclusive interview of his own that told the truth about the return of Voldemort in his fourth year.  She still remembered the stories she’d heard in the Potter household about the reactions Harry had received and how he had eventually convinced the majority that doom was once again at hand.  That was what Astraea needed: to give the entire wizarding community some serious food for thought in printed form.  But how was she to accomplish it?  She was not a prominent enough public figure to garner any attention if she were to give an interview, and she did not have any connections at the _Prophet_ or any of the popular magazines to be able to write articles that people would care to read and take notice.

 

She looked at the journals on her desk.  _Utuvienyas!_   She would write a book, a biography of Draco and Hermione Malfoy.

 

The house had waited patiently as Astraea re-visited the Pensieve several times while perusing the journals and then sat for a few days wondering what to do.  It had seen the others do the same.  It hoped that, like the others, she would tell it what her plans were.  It knew little about politics and cared nothing for the goings-on of the magical community, but making a difference was important to the Keepers and, therefore, important to it. 

 

When Astraea gleefully announced that she was going to write a book to tell the world the true story about Mr. Draco and Mrs. Hermione, the house shared her enthusiasm.  That was wonderful!  That meant Astraea would be moving in and spending most of her waking hours inside!  The house hummed at the thought of more of its rooms being once again put to use.

 

 

 

 _It was raining heavily, but the young wizard seemed oblivious.  He knelt there, drenched, the mud seeping through the material of his pants.  His grief was obvious, though he shed no tears.  Perhaps those had dried; perhaps the sky was crying for him._  
   
_The grave was still new.  The headstone gleamed, and there was only the first hint of greenery sprouting from the soil.  The cheerful daisies seemed too bright for the day, though the rain was quickly punishing them for their insolence._  
  
 _Some time later, another young wizard joined him, also placing a bunch of daisies before the headstone.  He seemed hesitant, as if deciding if he would join in the mud bath.  He remained standing, though he placed a comforting hand on the shoulder of his friend._  
  
 _"I'm sorry, Harry.  I wanted to come, but you know how Mum gets.  And Gin's been downright hostile.  She says you betrayed her and that if I came, I'd only be encouraging you, and she threatened to put spells around The Burrow so I couldn't get in without getting hexed."  He seemed to want to say more, but the lack of response from his friend was discouraging.  After an awkward silence, he broke it with, "I can't believe she's gone.  How could she do something so stupid?"_  
  
 _Harry finally broke his silence.  "She wouldn't've had to do something so drastic if we'd shown more support.  Some friends we are."_  
  
 _"Oh, c'mon, Harry.  It was Malfoy!  I just—" He stopped at the fierce look in Harry's eyes._  
  
 _"Do you know what Susan told me after she checked their bodies for the type of poison consumed?_   She was pregnant _.  She must not have known, or she'd never have taken her life like that.  Three deaths, Ron!  I have three more deaths on my hands!  Why does—How am I any different from Voldemort? My soul is even more maimed than his!  I—"  He tore at his hair.  Ron stood stunned.  He fell to his knees.  Harry regained some equilibrium.  "I think it would be best if Ginny and I stayed apart for a bit.  I can't… I can't forgive what she said about them.  I wasn't a good friend to Hermione, but I'd never… Anyway, you'd better get back to The Burrow.  Clean your trousers.  If they do throw you out, you can stay with me."_

 

 

 

After a few hours of extensive note-making, Astraea got up to stretch.  She pushed back the piles and was prepared to stand up when she saw one of the figurines fall off the edge of the desk.  She scrambled to retrieve it and watched, in horror, as it smashed on the floor, releasing its contents of silvery memories.  Quickly conjuring a jar, she stored them, closed the lid, and stared curiously at the whirling mist.  The journals had made no mention of these—whose were they?  Could there be another journal in the study that had been forgotten along with them?

 

Astraea looked through every book on the shelves and prudently tested ever moveable object, in case they also contained forgotten memories.  Her search yielded nothing.

 

She was impatient to look at the unexpected treasures, but a look out the window showed the lateness of the hour.  She had better grab a quick bite, else she would forget eating altogether. 

 

Finally, the meal completed and the dishes washed and put away, Astraea fetched the jar and walked into the sunroom.  The house had drawn the curtains and lit the lamps once the sun had set.  Making space in the Pensieve to view only the new memories, Astraea disappeared.

 

Re-emerging some time later, Astraea wiped the tears from her eyes.  Narcissa Malfoy had taken her son aside and suggested that he put away his most precious memories, now that he was to commence Occlumency lessons with his aunt Bella.  Astraea had the privilege of seeing a cross-section of her great-great-grandfather’s life.  His early childhood memories were dominated by time spent with an affectionate father.  Astraea shook her head at the thought that this same father would be the source of most of Draco’s misery in the years to come.  Then she grinned as she remembered the delight of discovering that Draco had had a secret crush on his future wife during his Hogwarts years.  There were many scenes of him casting surreptitious glances at her all around the school.  Great-great-gran had looked absolutely stunning in that periwinkle blue gown at the Yule Ball.  And what a feisty, brave girl she had been, confronting the arrogant Slytherin in the hallway and slapping him!   Who could’ve guessed that the once bitter enemies would’ve become so inseparable that they would denounce everything of their old life to start anew as Muggles.

 

The note inside Harry Potter’s notebook had contained the suicide note that Hermione had left behind, and the hints scattered throughout the family journals had told a story of disapproval from the Weasley clan and the elder Malfoys, but Astraea wondered just how much pressure the young couple had to have endured to force them to stage their own deaths in order to escape.  The suicide note mentioned Hermione’s being given a “leave of absence” that she knew was the Ministry’s cowardly way of firing her from her job, but she must have endured more than stares and whispers in the halls that she mentioned in her journals. 

 

The thought that her great-great-gran had been ambushed by family, friends, and strangers alike angered Astraea.  How did their attitude differ from that of Voldemort and the Death Eaters and their pure-blood doctrine?  It all boiled down to the same thing: segregation.  And even after four generations, there had been little improvement in the social climes.  Well, it was about time someone told them off. 

 

With renewed determination, Astraea stomped back into the study to continue her research notes.  Even if she had to pay for the binding, publication, and promotion, she would make sure that her biography made it to the shelves of all the major bookstores in the wizarding world.

 

 

 

_“You!  So, you’ve come to gloat as well.”  The wizard in the bed wheezed, every word sputtered from dry lips._

_“No, I have not.  I would’ve come with Draco, but he forbade it.  He’s in the safekeeping of our daughter.  You have some gall, Lucius Malfoy!  Even now, to be given the joy of knowing your son isn’t dead like you’d supposed, you still push him away.”_

_“Son?!  He is not my son.  No son of mine would be so insolent!”  He coughed.  “What joy should I feel to be told that the Malfoy name will die with me, that he renounces it completely?  To be informed that he only came at your insistence that he be a dutiful son.  Dutiful!  He violated his duty by the heartbreak he caused his parents by his death.  I wish he had truly died!  Then I would be spared his arrogant claim that I deserved no filial affection because I failed to be a good father!”  Lucius convulsed into a choking fit._

_The witch had instinctively reached out to help but then hesitated, her hand hovering.  She drew back when he recovered and glared at her._

_“I know you don’t want me here, and there is no point in trying to reason with you, since you show no repentance for how you made him suffer, which far exceeded that which you claim he inflicted.  You violated the trust between parent and child that should have been more sacred than any loyalty to a crazed madman.  But no, I won’t—” She took a deep breath and said coolly, “I came to tell you that I forgive you.”_

_“I don’t need nor want your forgiveness!”_

_“Your ego may not, but your soul does.”_

_He bit back a sharp retort as he struggled to put on a mask of indifference.  It happened so quickly that it was obvious he’d had years of practice._

_“Indeed?  Don’t you and your kind think me bereft of one?”_

_“No.  It may be mutilated, but it still exists.”_

_“Comforting.  Thank you for your condescendingly kind visit.  Now, if you will excuse me, I would like some rest.”_

_“Goodbye, Lucius.  May your soul, once unfettered, find the solace it has sought.”  The witch turned to leave.  She was about to close the door behind her when she heard him call out, “Wait.”  She looked in, warily._

_“What—what name have you given your daughter?”_

_She was surprised but replied, “Katriane.”_

_“Clarity.  Yes.  To not be blinded by prejudice.  Or pride.  Very fitting.”  Lucius suddenly looked very much a shrunken shadow of his former self.  “Th-thank you… Hermione.”_

_Hermione hesitated but then walked back into the room, removing something from her purse.  She brightened his bedside lamp and showed him a close-up picture of Katriane in her father’s arms, both grinning at the camera.  Lucius stared hungrily, caressing the photograph.  He reluctantly returned it, his eyes grateful._

_Hermione smiled and quietly left the room._

 

 

 

As the house watched over the determined Astraea, it was once again reminded of the similarities between Astraea and Katriane.  Ah, Katriane.  She was its first friend. 

 

Katriane had had an idyllic childhood.  Her parents had doted on her.  She’d had a group of friends that lived on the same street, and she had kept in contact with all of them even after entering the wizarding world.  She had always known that her parents were wizards, and she had started showing her own abilities at the right age.  It was hard to say which of the three were more excited when she prevented her ice cream soda from toppling onto the kitchen floor.  Of course, in all the excitement, the glass did smash, making a mess, but her parents were too happy at her manifestation to care; they simply Vanished the mess, much to Crookshanks' dismay. 

 

She received her letter from Hogwarts and was Sorted into Ravenclaw.  Her parents had told her about her family history through the years but had been careful to give only facts and never a word about why they did not live in the wizarding world like most magical families.  They did not want her to be unduly biased by their personal history but knew that she had to know.  While at Hogwarts, she was mindful of her parents' warnings and always kept her true name secret.  When she finally learned her full family history after she came of age, she cried for all that her parents had forsaken for her.    
   
She became a very vocal advocate of change in the wizarding world, working her way up the Ministry ranks.  But, having successfully hidden for centuries from the Muggle world and maintained a stable socioeconomic structure, the wizarding world had stagnated, and so, change was slow and, at times, unperceivable.    
   
Katriane had realized, after several years, that the revelation of her personal history and the truth about what had happened to her parents would make little impact on the wizarding world and would soon be forgotten.  She wanted more for her parents' sacrifices; she wanted their story to not only be remembered but be a lesson and an example, so she became the first Keeper and asked her parents for relevant memories to be stored in the Pensieve.  She also began her own set of journals and encouraged her mother to supply more details in the existing ones.    
   
Although Draco and Hermione never set foot in the wizarding world as their true selves again, they died with few regrets.  And they died knowing that, some day, their descendants would be the ones to spearhead the movement to prevent their personal tragedy from recurring.  

 

 

 

_“Papa?  Wake up, Papa!  It’s afternoon, and you said we’d play in the garden!  Papa!”  The little girl was confused and distressed that she could not get a response.  She ran crying from the room, screaming to Mummy that Papa was dead like her other grandma._

_Her mother hugged her tightly and rocked her until her tears subsided.  She then explained that her papa was not dead but very, very sad.  Did she remember the first time she had stayed overnight with Jeannette and Aunt Susan and Uncle Neville?  She had woken up in the middle of the night crying because she missed being tucked in and kissed by Mummy and Papa.  Well, Papa was feeling like that right now because he missed his mummy.  Now, wouldn’t she like to pick a new book to read?  Mummy would check on Papa, and perhaps tomorrow, if Papa was feeling better, they could go to the park._

_Mummy went into her bedroom to find Papa lying motionless on the bed, his face turned away from door.  She climbed in and lay facing him.  His eyes were red-rimmed and vacant.  She caressed his cheek.  “Draco?”  The vacant look was replaced by pain.  “I’m sorry, darling.”  He remained silent, but he was aware enough of her presence to frown in bafflement.  “You’ve always been caught in the middle, always had your life dictated by someone.  I was selfish to make you choose between your parents and me.”_

_Draco pulled her closer and kissed her.  “You didn’t make me choose.  They did.  And I’m_ not _sorry.”  His voice cracked.  “I miss her.  It’s not fair.  Why couldn’t she have said all that before, if that’s what she thought?”_

_“She suffered as much, if not more, as you did under Voldemort.  She saw first her husband then her son become ensnared, and she was helpless.  With Voldemort finally gone and the ordeals of the trial finished, she was able to finally have some control over her life.  It wasn’t wrong of her to want you to lead a safe life and one that she had envisioned for herself.  You’re a father now; you should know what it’s like to want only the best for your child and do what you think is best for her.”_

_“I’ve always put her happiness above mine.”_

_“She did, too.  She just didn’t understand about us, though she knew that you risked being shunned by others if you chose to be with me.  She wanted to save you from more suffering.  You can’t fault her intentions; they were well-meaning.  And we did cause her a lot of grief when we planned the fake death.   I don’t blame Pansy for withholding that she found out Narcissa was looking for us after she realized you were still alive—it was also well-intentioned—but the added guilt… I sometimes wonder if the happiness we’ve created here hasn’t come at too high a price.”_

_“Wishing you’d married the Weasel instead?”_

_“No, but things have never been easy for us, have they?  Not since we met.”_

_“Well, you certainly made life a living hell for me, my bushy-haired know-it-all.  The Muggle-born always besting me at everything.  So much for pure-blood superiority.”_

_“Ah, but then I slapped some sense into you.”_

_“No, you snogged me senseless.”_

_“You initiated the kiss, you smug Smaug!”_

_“Ah, a new one!  And why the last of the dragons?  You couldn’t’ve chosen Glaurung or even Scatha?  I’m insulted.”_

_“You’d rather I called you Puff?”  She grinned when he sputtered._

_“He’s not even_ real _!”_

_“How do you know?  Maybe it’s Glaurung and Smaug who are fictional.”  He stared, speechless with indignation.  Feeling she’d teased him enough, she asked, “Are you hungry?  Katriane and I have already eaten.”_

_“No.  Is she mad at me?”_

_“No.  She was just scared, but I explained why you’re feeling sad, and she understood.”_

_“I’m glad she could meet Mother.  I regret now that I refused to let both of you come with me when I went to Father’s deathbed.  If Katriane ever did that to me—”_

_“Actually, even though she didn’t meet him, Lucius did see a picture of her.”  She told him of her visit behind his back._

_He sighed and kissed her again.  “So that’s why Mother said he had a smile on his face.  I couldn’t figure out why, not if I was his last visitor.” He sighed again.  “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me.  Not that you ever do.”_

_She slapped his shoulder.  He smirked and didn’t stop kissing her until she’d wound her arm around him, pulling closer._

 

 

 

There was someone approaching the door.  The house alerted Astraea.

 

Astraea was just reading a new journal loaned from Jem and written by Pansy Potter when she sensed the house’s alert.  She reluctantly pushed aside the fascinating information about how Narcissa had discovered that Draco was still alive—house wards really were amazingly complex pieces of magic!—and went to answer the door.

 

The house watched as Astraea greeted one of her neighbours and smiled to itself as she reiterated the speech she had practised to explain how she was related to the mysterious Mr. Fenice and how she was only visiting with him.  How many times had Mrs. Hermione had to open the door to curious but friendly neighbours when she first moved in! 

 

Of course, the most unexpected visitor upon the threshold had been her friend Harry Potter.  Mrs. Hermione must have stood a full minute simply gaping at the man at the door.  Then she had embraced him fiercely, sobbing into his shoulder.  The house had guessed, from their conversation in the sunroom, that they had been best friends growing up, but it was Mr. Draco’s remarks to her after their guest had left that told it that this man had been one of the ones responsible for driving them out of the magical world.  But the man seemed genuinely remorseful, so the house had forgiven him and had not planned any tricks for his next visit.

 

 

 

 _The young man visibly relaxed, even managed a smile.  The lady across from him also smiled.  "Did you think we'd refuse, Draco?"  He flushed.  "Well, I suppose we wouldn't like you as much if you'd been confident in your request.  We've seen how well you interact with Hermione, and from what she's told us about your ordeals during the recent war, we know you will take better care of her than we can."  Draco looked astonished.  He seemed to protest but subsided as she continued, "I'm sure Hermione told you that she modified our memories and sent us away to Australia to keep us safe."_  
   
_"She had a hard time convincing us, too.  But she's a stubborn one, always been."  The man beside her interrupted, grinning._  
  
 _"Yes.  And how can she help it, with two stubborn parents?  She did finally get our cooperation, and we've spent a lot of time since coming home reconnecting.  But in spite of the openness that we've always insisted upon in this home, things have changed.  Well, to be more exact, Hermione has changed.  She's had to do a lot of growing up on her own, and she… she doesn't need us anymore.  Don't misunderstand.  I know we'll always be a part of her—your lives, but she's not our little girl anymore.  We don't blame her for what she did.  I won't lie: we're still trying to get over the anger of knowing that she had to suffer so much, but we're not angry at_ her _, just the situation and the fact that we couldn't do anything to protect her.  You've been through all that she has and more, so we know that you can help her in ways we never can."_  
   
_"She still has nightmares—I’m a light sleeper, so I've heard her, though she doesn't mention them."_  
  
 _"I promise I'll do anything in my power to make sure she's safe and happy, Mr. and Mrs. Granger.  She won't ever have to go through any of that again.  You can kill me in any way you want if I fail."_  
  
 _"Well, just make sure you do, my boy.  From what we've learned, that Killing Curse you have is a mercy.  You wouldn't want to die the Muggle way."  Mr. Granger chuckled, but the look in his eyes was not lost to Draco._  
  
 _"And when do you mean to propose, Draco?  I must say, the young people nowadays find it old-fashioned, but I think it's wonderful that you came and asked properly."_  
  
 _"I have a little date planned for Saturday, Just something quiet—you know she's never liked fuss, and she's even more weary now that she's been getting so much unwanted public attention for her role in defeating the Dark Lord."_  
  
 _"Yes, I think that's best, dear.  Not that I think you'll get any other answer, but she does tend to say some awkward things when she's flustered."  Draco and Mr. Granger both chuckled.  "And Draco, we're family now.  Do call us Neil and Eithne."_

 

 

 

She had Apparated to a point a safe distance away from the house, checked to make sure no one had spotted her, and walked toward the imposing gates.  She hesitated but finally reached out to touch the bars, flinching reflexively.  Nothing happened.  She sighed in relief.  She Apparated to the front door.  She looked about again.  She placed her palm in the centre of the door and waited for the click of the lock.  She blinked in surprise when she suddenly stood in the foyer.  The brightly lit foyer.  The scent of dust and damp reached and overwhelmed her, and she choked.  A sudden buzz assaulted her ears, and it took her a moment to realize that the portraits were desiring to know who she was.  She decided to ignore them and explore the house.

 

The furniture was covered in white sheets, but in spite of them and the lights, a feeling of oppression still hung heavily in every room.  Had she been an overly-imaginative child, she would have flown from the house in terror of the shadows that warred with the lights for dominance.  One thing was definite: this was a house, not a home.

 

Exploration of the main floor took some time, as the house was massive.  She'd gasped in awe at the rows upon rows of books that covered every wall of the teak library; she forced herself to close the door, promising to return some other time.  

 

When she finally climbed the imposing staircase, she could feel their eyes following her.  But she continued to ignore their indignant curiosity.  She paused at the top of the stairs, trying to remember.   Yes, the East Wing.  She peered into each of the darkened rooms until she found the one she wanted.  

 

She stood in the centre of the room and looked around.  It was a very masculine room, though surprisingly plain.  Every item was of the highest quality, certainly, but there was less opulence here than in any of the rooms she'd seen in the floor below.  The room was also very tidy.  Not at all what she expected a teenaged boy's room to be like—certainly, her own experiences growing up with two brothers had taught her that boys had no problems living in pigsties.  Then she slapped her forehead in chagrin.   _House-elves, you dimwit_.  But still, there was an orderliness that exceeded that of a boy used to servants picking up after him.  Every item had its place, and they were put there carefully and methodically.  

 

She knew that nothing in the room had any sentimental value to its owner; else, the item would not still be sitting here, waiting under a thick layer of dust.  But she still wanted a small token, some small souvenir of her visit.  She finally tucked a Prefect badge into her bag.

 

She walked back down the stairs and returned to the study, trying hard not to look into the open doorway that led into the magnificent library.  She tested the black stone basin and, finding its weight manageable, carried it into the sitting room.  She mobilized a sturdy side-table to the centre of the room and placed the basin on top.  She then carefully took a dozen or so vials from her shoulder bag and poured each of their contents into the empty basin.  She mumbled a few spells and saw the misty substance flicker and wink with lights and colours.  

 

Finally, she turned toward the wall that held the large painting and addressed the curious onlookers, who had crammed themselves into it.  She introduced herself and smirked at their shocked responses.  When the clamouring died down, she pointed to the Pensieve and told them that it contained a copy of memories she wanted them to see.  She told them that she did not expect them to understand but that they needed to know what their closed-mindedness had cost them.  

 

She would not return for several months, and even then, she locked herself in the library and refused to speak to any of the portraits.

 

All the while, the Pensieve replayed scenes of a tiny stone cottage and the inhabitants that had lived in and loved it.  

 

 

 

_The man was so entranced by the flowers and shrubbery of the front garden that it took him over five minutes to finally knock._

_"Longbottom!  Come in!  Hermione's not home right now, but do make yourself—"_

_"I actually came to see you, Malfoy."_

_"Oh.  Well, have a seat.  Drink?"_

_"No, thank you.  I need you—that is, if you could please—th-this is so awkward… I was talking to Ron, and it seems the Weasleys are also not speaking to Harry."_

_Draco's face was impassive as he heard the story.  How the lines were finally defined, with Arthur cowering under Molly's wrath and siding against Hermione, despite having let slip some comments at the office about his regrets about the family's part in Hermione's death; and so, it was Harry and Fred against the rest of the Weasleys, with the former no longer welcomed at The Burrow and the latter so angry with his family that he placed a spell around his shop to deny them admittance._

_"Amazing what 'respectability' can do to people.  How blinding pride can be to the things that truly matter."_

_"Well, you know, with the few of them working in the Ministry, it's tricky…"_

_"Molly must be so proud that the family has finally rejoined the ranks of the other pure-bloods."_

_Neville winced at this and an awkward silence ensued.  Finally, he haltingly mentioned that Narcissa had been released from St. Mungo's and seemed to be slowly recovering, although she had not yet made a public appearance._

_"The Blacks have always come from strong stock.  Bellatrix couldn't've survived Azkaban all those years otherwise.  A pity my mother will never see that her strength has been passed down to her granddaughter."_

_"Malfoy, don't you think that, maybe—"_  
  
"No.   _They made their choice.  Why must I be the one to grovel?"_

_"But—all right, it's your decision.  If you_  do _ever reconsider, just know that you'll be the  better person for having taken the first step… Anyway, I-I should head home.  You'll break it to Hermione gently, won't you?"_

 

_"You know, Longbottom, this Gryffindor nobleness that you all seem to have imbibed can really get annoying.  Don't worry, I may have inherited cold-bastardness from my father's side, but my mother has instilled impeccable manners and tact ever since I was permitted at the dinner table.  I made a promise that Hermione wouldn't have to suffer unnecessarily for everything she’s had to give up."_

_"Seems you've imbibed a bit of that annoying Gryffindor nobleness yourself, Malfoy.  See you around."_

 

 

 

"Astraea... please, Astraea, we only want a moment of your time."  The voice was soft and pleading.  Astraea walked toward the hall of portraits and looked for the owner of the voice.  She finally found and stared at Narcissa Malfoy.  Her aunt Pleione was the spit and image of this elegant lady.  "I know that we have greatly wronged Draco and Hermione, my dear.  Although you did not mean it as a kindness to show us those memories, we do thank you for them.  Would you be willing to share more about them?"

 

Astraea stepped back and looked thoughtfully at the Malfoys.  Having made up her mind, she nodded.

 

She gave them brief highlights from each generation, beginning with Draco and Hermione themselves.  She told of their accomplishments, gave little anecdotes, mentioned certain events that she'd learned about from the journals, and contextualized every story with how they reflected on or reacted to the prejudices of the wizarding world and its narrow-mindedness.  More than once, she glimpsed a clenched jaw, a frown, heard a derisive harrumph.  When she finished, she braced herself for the onslaught of criticism and defensive arguments.  She was not disappointed.  She  _was_  surprised, however, at the short duration of the cacophony.  When the noise petered out, she was shocked to hear Lucius' voice.

 

"The Malfoy name may have died, but the blood lives on.  Malfoys have always been able to survive during times of upheaval.  Whether you choose to acknowledge your heritage or not, know that the Manor will always protect those of its blood."  

 

Astraea smirked.  Only a Malfoy could make a simple "welcome to the family" seem like such an exclusive honour.  With a glint in her eye, Astraea coolly thanked him and mentioned that she had found a few very relevant references in the library for the book that she was writing about the lives of Draco and Hermione and how they had found happiness by escaping the confines of an out-of-date society.  

 

Lucius glared at her and then gave a short laugh.  He addressed his amused remark to his wife. "It seems we misjudged.  The blood may still be there, but the Gryffindor personality has dominated.  If it weren't for the eyes, we would never know there was any mixture of blood at all."

 

"Now, Lucius.  You're just being querulous.  Only think, the Malfoy name will once again be on the lips of everyone in the wizarding world!" said one of the portraits.

 

"But the same infamy remains!"  Lucius snarled. "I managed to make some small headway toward decreasing the negative associations placed on our family, but the news of the suicides not only unravelled my attempts at reparation but increased the contempt we had to bear!  What did I ever do to raise such an ungrateful son?"

 

"You never showed him support when he needed it!"  Astraea fumed.  "You didn't protect him from harm as any decent father should have!"  After all these years, they still would not admit their wrong-doings.

 

"Not protect him?  I did naught but that!  Did you think that he would've fared better if I prevented him from taking the Mark?  The Dark Lord would surely have killed both Narcissa and myself first before forcing Draco into his service, and then my son would have been left to the tender mercies of lunatics like Bella and Greyback!"  Astraea was taken aback.  She had never considered that taking the Dark Mark could've saved Draco from a worse fate.  Before she could gather her thoughts, Lucius continued, "As for not supporting his marriage, I was not the only one opposed to it.  That they had to live as Muggles may have been the outcome even if we _did_  condone them!  Don't think that the Potter boy or the Weasleys would've been any more understanding!  I know that Potter and the Weasleys cut all ties after Draco's disappearance, and I sincerely doubt that there has been any reconciliation since."  Astraea refused to admit that he was right, but he gathered enough from her silence and tightened lips.  "Now, you say you wish to write a book about the truth.  I do hope that you plan to tell the  _whole_  truth and not just condemn our family's role in my son's… choices.  How I wish I could see the look on the faces of the Weasleys when their name is dragged through the mud from whence they think they've escaped.  The Malfoy name is dead, so no one in the family need feel ashamed of your exposé."

 

Astraea was seething, but she knew it was useless to reason with a portrait.  She remembered the journal entries regarding the immutable Mrs. Black.  She took a few calming breaths.  "Did you know that Draco received renown in the Muggle world under his new name?  He became a famous mathematician.  What started as a hobby working with puzzles became the most thoroughly worked-out system of coding for the secure transmission of sensitive information between governments.  The Muggles have a contraption called a computer, whose ability to process information surpasses the human mind many-fold.  It is so powerful that one such machine is capable of defeating a human opponent and champion at chess.  Think of the complexity that is needed. Several of these types of machines were strung together and programmed to try and crack the code that Draco devised—by hand!—and failed.  In the academic circles, he is revered like young wizards admire Wronski.  In the highest ranks of the international governmental body, you need only say The Fenice Algorithm and there is the utmost respect.  Draco received the Order of the British Empire for having devised two such systems of coding; that is the equivalent of receiving the Order of Merlin,  _First Class_.  

 

"But even with all the acclaim and the love that he  _did_  find with Hermione, a part of him always grieved.  I found a small figurine of a dragon on his desk, and from its worn condition, I could tell it was handled very often.  It contained all of his most precious memories—Narcissa knows what I mean: she had told him to store them away so that they would not be tainted during his Occlumency lessons with Bellatrix.  Most of those memories were from his times spent with an affectionate father, and, judging from his age, these all occurred prior to his Hogwarts years.  It's hard to believe that that is the same man who later, on his deathbed, told him that he wished he never fathered him."  

 

Astraea ignored the obvious look of pain on Lucius' face but turned her heel and headed toward the library, where she gathered her things and then Apparated home.

 

 

 

 _The young witch awoke slowly.  She blinked her eyes and looked around, finally focussing on her Healer._  
   
_"How do you feel, Hermione?"_  
  
 _"Like I just awoke from a very long, deep, and cold sleep."_  
  
 _"Yes, you most certainly did!  The deepest sleep you'll ever wake from, for sure!  And don't worry, everything's fine.  Your baby is also fine."_  
  
 _Hermione smiled, a hand touching her flat stomach protectively.  "Thank you, Susan.  And—did everything go according to plan?"_  
  
 _"Yes, Harry was the first to arrive, as expected.  I will admit, even Neville and I would've been as devastated if we hadn't been in on your plan.  And you really have to thank Draco when he wakes for his paranoia about removing the pertinent memories: they really did ask Neville to take Veritaserum.  And thank goodness for Pansy as well—there were some really ugly things said after the Malfoys arrived, but she handled all of them beautifully.  She could've made an amazing Auror if she had the ambition.  Now, I want you to do a few things for me, just to make sure your body is fully recovered."_  
  
 _When Susan had satisfied herself on that point, she helped Hermione walk into the next room.  "You're right, Hermione.  He really does look like a young child when he sleeps."_

_Hermione smiled as she was helped to sit by his side.  After being handed the revival potion and given the instructions, she administered them and watched, fascinated, as Draco slowly awoke.  He beamed when he saw her staring down intently.  "It worked, then.  Were my parents sufficiently abusive?"_  
  
 _"Hello to you, too!  I feel fine, by the way.  And seeing as your snark survived the ordeal intact, I see you're fine as well."_  
  
 _He looked contrite and reached up for a kiss.  "But you wouldn't love me as much if I wasn't snarky.  You wouldn't get to call me a snarky bastard anymore."_  
  
 _"Your parents were absolutely beside themselves, Draco," Susan replied. "I've never seen your father lose control like that—not that I'm that well-acquainted with him, of course.  But he always struck me as being very aloof."  Draco snorted.  "I'm sure he would have hexed Harry if there weren't so many Aurors present."_  
  
 _"Not hexed:_ Avada _'d."_  
   
_"I was just telling Hermione how well Pansy handled all of them.  I'm so glad I wasn't on the wrong side."_  
  
 _"And Crookshanks behaved?"_  
  
 _"Yes, he's a born actor.  Leaped into her arms, too.  You should've seen the shock on Harry's and Ron's faces."_  
  
 _"That cat would've ruled Slytherin house if he could've been Sorted."_  
  
 _"He would've been Sorted into Gryffindor, you prat!  He's the most loyal and brave pet.  Anyway, never mind that.  Susan, Draco and I really thank you for all your help in this.  We couldn't've done it without you.  I know there's no way to ever repay you, but if you and Neville ever need anything—"_  
  
 _"No need for thanks.  We were glad to help.  And you've given us the incentive that we needed to be more vocal about the injustices that drove both of you to do this.  Human nature is such a mystery sometimes: after fighting so hard to be rid of that evil monster, they're all just content to go back to how things were before!  As if nothing happened to open their eyes to why that evil was allowed to even get as powerful as it did."_  
  
 _"Creatures of habit.  And it's just easier to fall back on the familiar.  Revolution is rare even in the Muggle world, so never mind a small, isolated magical community."_  
  
 _"But you'd_ think _they would be more supportive of those who are trying to do the legwork to make the improvements we need."_  
   
_"No one risks their neck unless success is guaranteed.  You see, love, it's not just a Slytherin thing."_  
  
 _"The wizarding world needs to be ruled by more Hufflepuffs and fewer Slytherins."_  
  
 _"No Gryffindors?"_  
  
 _"They'd be too busy rounding up the Slytherins and putting them into rehabilitation."_  
  
 _"Rehabilitation?  Does this involve stone houses as gilded cages in the middle of Muggle London?"_  
  
 _"Only the reformed ones get something so cozy."_  
  
 _"Reformed, am I?  See, I knew it: you_  do _love me in all my Slytherin glory.  The only thing you've managed to change about me is my marital status."_  
   
_"Well, you're about to go through another change, and this one will have more dire consequences.  In fact, I bet it'll turn you into an emotional Gryffindor."_  
  
 _"Oh,_ really.  _I doubt there's anything that could change me so fundamentally.  I've just died and come back, snark intact, as you put it."_  
   
_Hermione smiled and drew closer.  "We're going to have a baby."_  
  
 _Susan discreetly exited the room._

 

 

 

It was mid-afternoon.  Spring had bloomed late this year, but the flowers had finally found it warm enough to show off their colours.  They didn't seem as vibrant as last year, though.    
   
They were probably missing Astraea, the house thought.  The house missed Astraea, too.  As Mrs. Hermione used to say, love was an inexplicable thing.  After Katriane had moved out, the house was usually empty.  There had been occasional visits from Katriane and her family, and the same applied to her descendants and subsequent owners.  But every time they were there, no matter how short their stay, the house always forgot the loneliness that would follow.  It seemed the garden felt the same way.  
   
Astraea had finally finished her book.  She had laboured long and hard over it and was now trying even harder to find a publisher.  The house knew that her greatest fear was not succeeding in getting her manuscript published.  It fervently wished that she would not be disappointed, even if it meant their time together would come to an end.  They had become close friends during her writing process.  She had read bits and pieces aloud as she completed them, seeking its approval, and they had found a steady companionship while she struggled to get things right.    
   
The house sighed.  The neighbours had stopped knocking on the door when it became obvious that Astraea was not there.    
   
It was daydreaming in the garden when it heard the front gate.  The gardener, come to do his weekly work.  But wait, it was not Monday.  Who—? But even as it formed the question, the house heard the familiar jangle of keys and click of the lock.  
   
Astraea walked in and saw the flicker of lights greet her.  She smiled, closed the door, and went into the kitchen for a snack.  As she rummaged through the cupboards and raided the fridge, she told the house that she had finally found a publisher willing to read her manuscript.  The publisher made no promises, but the lady she had spoken to was the first who had even shown interest.  Astraea did not want to raise any false hopes, but she was relieved that her luck was at least turning a bit after three months of knocking fruitlessly on doors.  The publisher was a small, independent company based in Dublin.  All she could do now was wait.    
   
Over the next few days, Astraea updated the house on her recent adventures with the various publishing houses.  Not surprisingly, Weasley and Sons had refused outright when the subject of her book was known.  Ever since Harry Potter's divorce from Ginny Weasley, relations with the Weasleys had been strained.  Ron Weasley had eventually sided with his family, and Harry never bothered to tell him the truth about Draco and Hermione.  Katriane had wanted to mend things by befriending the Weasley in her year, but when it became obvious that little Andrea would not have anything to do with anyone associated with the Potters, she gave up.  And the rift had persisted.  But the rift was not without cost: the Weasleys themselves became divided on the issue, with the branch that owned Wheezies, as Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was affectionately dubbed by loyal customers, refusing to ostracize the Potters.  Business was business, they insisted.  Harry had been considerate by not burdening Fred Weasley with the truth about Hermione and Draco, and he had not stopped their children from becoming friends, but the bond that they had all shared slowly unravelled.  Neither Astraea nor her siblings considered any of the Weasleys as anything more than casual acquaintances.    
   
After two weeks of nervous anticipation, Astraea finally received an owl from the Irish publisher.  They loved her book and would publish it.  Would she please notify them as to how soon she could come to discuss their contract and make arrangements for the eventual book tour?  Astraea dashed off a reply and spent the rest of the day squealing and dancing about the house.  

   
Then she was off again, and the house was left dreaming of her.    
   
Over the next few months, she came and went as her schedule allowed, but always returned full of news and excitement.  The first reviews were mixed, as was expected, but she was not discouraged.  Even the nasty letters that she received from disgusted readers did not bother her.  She had learned from Harry Potter's experience that even bad responses were better than none.  At least people were reading her book.  The Ministry had tried to have the book banned, but by the time it had issued the decree, the majority of the books had already disappeared from the shelves of the local bookstores.  Astraea was now bombarded with newspapers and magazines demanding interviews.  She chose to have a press conference, something that was still uncommon in the magical world.  When the letters became overwhelming, her publisher hired assistants to sort through and answer them, putting aside only certain interesting ones for Astraea to personally respond to.    
   
Astraea came home very late and very tired one evening.  She had been at the publishing house working out logistics of a second edition, having succeeded in making the Ministry rescind its ban on the book, and going through the correspondences that awaited her.  She was satisfied that the book had not been a failure, but the stress of all the publicity had finally taken its toll.    
   
As she climbed up the stairs to her bedroom, she mumbled to the house that, after thinking things over, she would be moving in permanently.  She had noticed, more than once, someone trying to tail her to discover where she lived.  They would never find her here.    
   
The house waited until she fell asleep to hum with excitement and joy: it had someone to love again.


End file.
